


Sparks

by gregszandles (JeffersonStarship)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Blood and Violence, Case Fic, Gen, Greg/Sara/Nick friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28800099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeffersonStarship/pseuds/gregszandles
Summary: It may be New Year’s Eve, but the investigators aren’t celebrating. They’re working the case of a serial killer who slits his victims’ throats, and Greg is about to find out just how ruthless their culprit can be.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	Sparks

“You’re saying this lady slit her own throat?”

The question comes from Greg Sanders, who stands near the open rear door of the police cruiser. He is flanked by two more crime scene investigators and Captain Brass of the LVPD. This is the first time Greg has spoken since arriving at the scene. He isn’t leading the interview, but the story is too unbelievable for him to hold his tongue.

“Yes. And for the last time, she wasn’t a _lady_. She was a whore,” is the response.

They glance at each other and raise their eyebrows. This guy is a real winner.

‘This guy’ is one Santiago ‘Steel’ Brewer. He has a violent record—confirmed by dispatch only ten minutes ago—and now sits handcuffed in the back of a police car under suspicion of brutally executing a local prostitute.

Her body was located in an alley nearby, throat slit from ear to ear. She bled out, face down on cracked, filthy cement, still warm when a homeless man stumbled upon her and flagged down a canvassing police vehicle. Hers is the third in a string of similar murders in the area, and Brewer is the closest the authorities have to a suspect. Considering that his hands, arms, and shirt are coated in blood that is still tacky, and he was discovered hiding under the porch of a foreclosed home less than a block from the body, he’s looking good for it.

Greg, along with his fellow CSIs Sara Sidle and Nick Stokes, have been called in early to work this case. Dayshift remains wrapped up in their own cases, and around the holidays the crime lab has a lot more on its plate than usual. They don’t mind; they’ve worked the related cases and are excited to learn there’s a suspect at the scene.

“Let me get this straight,” Nick tries. “You come across her in the alley, witness her suicide, somehow end up with blood all over you even though you claim you never approached her, and instead of getting help you hide from the police under an abandoned house?”

“That’s what I said,” Brewer retorts irritably.

It’s just after seven on New Year’s Eve, and the main roads are packed with tourist and resident vehicles inching toward their occupants’ chosen destinations to ring in the new year. Although unauthorized fireworks are illegal in Las Vegas, random bursts of ‘pop’s and ‘bang’s have arisen along the outskirts of the city ever since the sun went down. They never last long enough for the police to track them down, and until some kid gets a firework to the face there is not much that can be done.

A uniformed officer approaches the group standing at the cruiser.

“Hey Captain, we found this under the porch,” the officer says to Brass, presenting a digital camera by its string.

Brass nods to the investigators, and Sara quickly dons a pair of gloves from her pocket. She takes the camera and turns it over lightly in her hands.

“Doing some painting?” she asks the suspect ironically after observing the red smears across the device.

Brewer glares at her, but there is the faintest shadow of doubt in his demeanor where before there was only denial and annoyance. “It’s not mine.”

“Okay. I’m sure it belongs to the other guy covered in blood under that porch.” Sara presses the power button on the camera, only to find it unresponsive. “Battery’s dead.”

Nick shrugs. “That’s fine, I’m sure we’ve got a charger for it back at the lab. I have a feeling that that camera contains some big evidence to disprove your little story.” He leans down, now eye-level with the suspect. “Probably enough to put you on death row.”

The only warning of what is to come is a spark of fury in Brewer’s eyes before he pulls his arms to the front, slipped cuff dangling from one wrist, and simultaneously hurls his head forward. His forehead hits a surprised Nick square in the nose, and the force of the hit sends him backwards. His heels catch on the curb next to the cruiser and he falls hard onto his rear.

Nick’s hands fly up to his nose, from which blood streams, and the suspect leaps from the back of the cruiser, scrambling over the stunned CSI and pushing past Greg, Sara, and Brass.

“Stop!” Brass shouts, pulling his gun and taking aim at the retreating form, but the suspect ducks into a narrow alleyway between two apartment buildings.

Three nearby officers, along with Sara, take off after the suspect. Greg kneels by Nick and watches him carefully.

“You okay?”

Nick nods, still holding his nose and squinting in pain. When he speaks his voice is nasally. “Yeah. Go get ‘eb.”

Greg stands and glances about to get his bearings. This is one of the city’s more crime-prone areas, and although this fact is unfortunate for its systemically underprivileged residents it is fortunate for Greg. He’s been here quite a few times and his excellent photographic memory kicks into overdrive. The route that the suspect and those in pursuit have taken leads to two possible exits, but one of them is hidden.

Weeks ago he searched the area while working another murder, and he knows that the alley leads to what appears to be a ninety-degree turn to the left. However, if a person ducks under a couple old wooden pallets that lean against the stone wall to the right, a four- by four-foot passage is revealed. Its purpose was originally for flood drainage but its grate has been stolen and now it serves as a duck-under passage to the next alley over. _That_ alley also leads to a main road, and freedom.

If Sara and the officers lose sight of the suspect behind the rubbish stacked in the alley, they will likely assume he followed the turn left. However, Brewer lives in the neighborhood and more than likely knows about the passage.

All of these thoughts pass through Greg’s mind in a matter of mere milliseconds, and without pausing to think things through rationally, he turns to the right and dashes down the sidewalk towards the next intersection where he makes a left. Fortunately, the surrounding blocks have been cleared by officers and no other pedestrians are around to get in Greg’s way so he makes great time to the opening of the seemingly dead-end alley.

‘ _You’re unarmed_ ,’ his logical side cautions silently, but Greg ignores it. He shouldn’t need a gun, because Brewer is unarmed as well.

Back to the wall, he peaks around the entrance and is both dismayed and relieved to see even more stacks of clutter line the passage than when he was last here. The stacks can be used to conceal both Greg and the suspect. After taking a few slow breaths to calm his racing heart, Greg darts into the alley. Snagging a termite-bitten slat of discarded wood on his way, he goes a few yards in before ducking behind a five-foot tall pile of garbage bags.

The smell is dreadful, but Greg is soon distracted by the sound of shoes slapping pavement. They are approaching from the end of the alley, where it secretly connects to the next. He closes his eyes, focusing on the location of the steps and brandishing the stick in both hands.

When the footsteps are just about to pass the pile of trash bags, Greg jumps up and turns, swinging the piece of wood. It splinters when it impacts with Brewer’s upper chest, but still packs enough of a punch to send the guy to his knees. Greg pushes the man all the way to the ground and begins to cuff him. He sees the previous pair hanging from one of Brewer’s wrists and rolls his eyes, making sure to tighten the new ones as much as possible.

Once Brewer’s arms are secured, Greg reaches for the radio on his belt. He’s crouched at the man’s side with a hand on his back to keep him down when he senses a presence behind him.

He has no time to react before a hand shoots around and clamps over his mouth. Eyes widening as panic and instinct kick in, he forgets about the radio and swings his head back. Pain roars through the back of his skull where it hits something solid behind him, and he hears a grunt. The grip over his mouth lessens and Greg starts to pull away, but the hand quickly regains control of his face and in his periphery he sees a second arm wind around his other shoulder. The glint of the object in its grasp sends a chill through Greg’s bones and he lets out a muffled cry for help before his voice is cut off by the sharp edge of a cold blade pressing against his throat.

“The next word you say, and the next inch you move, will be your last,” a voice like venom hisses next to his ear.

Greg freezes, afraid to even breathe as the knife scrapes against his skin. Brewer is probably a murderer, and crafty as hell if he can slip handcuffs and dodge law enforcement, and his friend seems to be much the same way.

“Unlock those cuffs,” the man behind him orders, gesturing briefly at Brewer with the blade.

He doesn’t budge. The guy literally just threatened his life if he moved. Is this some sort of trick? With Brewer free it will be _two_ against one and the odds are already stacked against Greg getting away unscathed.

Where are the others? Have they figured out that they lost the suspect yet? When will they realize that Greg is gone?

Suddenly the knife presses so hard that Greg feels it cut superficially into his skin.

“ _Do it._ ”

Well, he is apparently screwed either way, so Greg fumbles at his belt until he locates his handcuff keys. He then begins the tedious process of unlocking Brewer’s cuffs without moving too much and losing his head.

“Faster,” the man urges sharply.

Finally the feat is done and Brewer rises slowly, rubbing his wrists before brushing dirt from his clothes and turning to glare down at Greg.

“Get up,” Brewer says quietly.

Greg is unsure how he is supposed to obey the order in his current position and simply stares blankly, but the man behind him leaves little choice when he rises, dragging Greg painfully to his feet with the grip over his mouth and jaw and the knife cutting into him more than before.

Now that they are standing, Greg senses that he has at least a few inches on Brewer’s accomplice based on the back- and downward pull. If given the opportunity he may be able to overpower him, but then there is Brewer himself, who is Greg’s height and muscular…

“ _GREG!_ ”

The shout bounces off of the walls around them but Greg thinks it came from the same place as the suspect. It’s Sara, and his heart leaps hopefully. The knife lowers from his neck and the hand from his mouth. He quickly sucks in a breath to shout back and warn her, but a fist rams into his gut. He grunts and tries to curl around his stomach but the two men work together to slam him into a wall on one side of the alley. They lean against his back and pin him there.

“Remember what I said,” Brewer’s accomplice whispers.

Greg doesn’t think he could make a noise now even if he tried. The wind has been knocked out of him and his face is pushed against the unforgiving stone.

“Greg?”

Her voice is closer. Did she overhear the brief struggle?

Greg almost sobs in frustration. Help is so close yet tauntingly out of reach. He reasons it might be safer for everyone involved if he doesn’t respond, so he closes his eyes tightly and focuses on pulling in precious air once the cramping in his stomach eases. The moment is too similar to another that was etched into his memory years ago, and he wonders if he might be lucky enough to survive another like it.

“Gr—” Sara’s voice is cut off by an explosion of sound and light.

He is so taken aback by the sudden noise that Greg initially believes there _is_ an explosion. His heart knocks against his lungs and ribcage and he waits tensed for the anticipated shockwave of heat and shrapnel. It does not come, but the booms and flashes continue. Then, in brief periods of silence, distant cheers can be heard and he recalls the scheduled fireworks show downtown. The city hosts two fireworks shows this year, one at seven-thirty—for the kids—and one at midnight.

This area is close enough to the city’s center that the show is easily observed over the tops of buildings. Greg tries to think of how to use this distraction to his advantage, but the moment of surprise has passed and the other men are pressing just as hard on his back. He can’t see a way out of this.

That is, until one of the arms leaves his back and the others grab his shoulder, spinning then shoving him back again. Now that he’s facing outward, at least Greg can see their positions, and he notices that Brewer has begun to pace. He looks frustrated and deep in thought. His accomplice has a palm against Greg’s chest but his knife hand is lowered.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” The man watching Greg sounds like he’s coming unhinged, but Brewer says nothing.

Knowing he may only get one chance, he waits until Brewer has his back turned and Greg swings his fist, landing a blow to the side of the shorter guy’s head. As the guy falls, Greg sees his eyes roll back in his head and knows that he’s knocked out. The sound of the blow and subsequent fall are masked by the deafening fireworks, and when Brewer turns back he’s shocked to see his partner flat on the ground and Greg dashing towards the alley’s exit.

Brewer growls, stoops to retrieve the fallen knife, and takes off after the guy who is ruining his chances at a getaway.

Greg is steps from the relative safety of the open and streetlights; he is about to emerge onto the sidewalk when he risks turning back midstride to check on his pursuer. All he sees is a huge shadow lunging at him before he’s tackled. It’s a massive hit and the air is forced from his lungs. He’s never played football but he imagines this is what a hit feels like from one of those big guys out on the field. He also thinks that it’s quite likely Brewer _did_ play football at some point in his life.

Greg lands on his side on the ground and his head cracks against the pavement. A harsh ringing fills his ears and it’s so loud that it competes with the fireworks show. He’s rolled roughly to his stomach and a heavy weight straddles his back. A hand grabs onto his hair and pulls back, straining his neck and sending pain radiating throughout his skull.

Through blurred vision, Greg notices that he is halfway out of the alleyway, his torso on the sidewalk. The flashes from the show are much brighter out here, but he thinks he sees something different: several solid flares of light bobbing up and down on the road. Help is coming.

He feels the cold of the blade against his throat once more.

_Why didn’t I grab the knife?_

Because the only thought on his mind is escaping.

Still pulling his head back sharply, Brewer presses the knife harder. “You’re going to pay for this. Do you think I can convince them that _you_ cut your own throat, too? It’s too bad I lost my camera, because your corpse is going to make a gorgeous piece of art—"

“ _Freeze_! Leave the CSI and back away!”

The familiar voice breaks through the other noise and somewhat clears Greg’s head. When he looks in that direction, he makes out a figure standing about thirty feet away. It’s Brass. Sara, Nick, and a half-dozen policemen stand just behind him, and everyone’s guns are drawn. Greg chooses to avert his eyes because he’s looking down nine too many gun barrels and knows that injury or death from friendly fire is a very real possibility. That is, if the knife doesn’t end his life first.

Brewer doesn’t budge and his grip on Greg’s hair does not waver.

Brass tries again, this time lowering his gun somewhat because he sees a steadfast certainty on the criminal’s features. “Look, Brewer, I’m not going to lie. You’re in trouble here, but nowhere near as deep as you will be if you hurt him. Put down the weapon and we’ll talk about this.”

Brewer’s laugh is cynical. “I know you have a duty to try and help your friend here, but why on earth would I stop now? I’ve slit the throats of five whores in as many weeks…”

‘ _Five_?’ Greg thinks. They’ve only found three, and the knowledge that somewhere out there are two women—possibly Jane Does—that have yet to be connected to the case is unnerving.

“…what’s one more?” Brewer finishes.

Minus a decade and one knife to the neck, Greg probably would have taken offense to that. In his current circumstances however, he could barely bring himself to register what the guy said, let alone if it was meant as an insult.

“Let him go and we can work something out.”

“Sorry,” Brewer shouts back. There is a finality to his voice. “No lies, no deals. I’m not going to prison!”

Greg’s head is pulled back even further, and Brewer makes a quick motion with the knife.

Time slows. Initially it is cold, like the tip of an icicle trailing across his neck. He thinks that Brewer is threatening him, lightly touching the cold blade to his skin to warn him against trying anything. But then a faucet is switched on and a warm stream flows into the neck of his shirt, wetting it and his jacket.

Even though it’s all quite obvious, Greg struggles to grasp what’s happened. It can be entertaining where the mind travels during shock; he thinks for a moment that Brewer is pissing over his shoulder and he is thoroughly disgusted until the pain hits, like the _bang_ of a firework arriving after its light. Now his neck is searing and he realizes that he’s been cut, and badly. A single shot rings out and Brewer’s hold on his hair releases. The knife splashes to the cement into a rapidly expanding pool of blood, which Greg perceives as his own once his head is let go.

Brewer falls to the side with a thud and Greg reacts instantly, pulling himself from beneath the sprawled legs. He rises to his hands and knees, crawling a few steps before dragging himself to his feet. He’s light-headed and confused but knows he needs to get away from Brewer and from that alleyway. Reminded again of his wound by the weight of his soaked clothing, Greg raises a hand and presses it flat against the front of his neck. It stings and he grimaces. He turns and sees Brewer’s body, and it is still too close for comfort so he staggers into the street.

Greg wants to run but he can’t convince his legs to move faster. He thinks he hears someone yell his name, but it’s distant and masked by fireworks. Blood seeps around his hand and between his fingers so he clamps down harder, biting his tongue against the pain.

After lurching a few more steps he feels himself hit the ground for a second time that night. He rolls weakly to his back and covers his slick neck with both hands. He’s graced with a decent view of the show’s finale before the raucous fireworks come to an end and the bright flashes of light cease, followed by roaring applause and cheers.

The cheers fade into a few moments of perfect silence, which is broken by several footsteps approaching. Both Sara and Nick’s concerned faces suddenly float between him and the hazy sky. He feels hands trying to pull his away from his neck, but all he can think about is that Brewer’s accomplice is still back there, and the others are unaware. The guy might come to at any moment, and could either escape or sneak up on them.

Greg opens his mouth and tries to warn them but finds that he can’t talk, so instead he lifts a hand and gestures at the alley. Nick’s gaze follows, then he disappears from view. Sara has had a close look at his neck with her flashlight and her expression is grim. She’s wearing a scarf, and quickly unwraps it from her own neck to press it against Greg’s.

His breaths are coming in short, hoarse pants and his vision is getting black around the edges. Sara is talking to him but he can’t understand what her words. She presses tighter against his wound and the pain is too much; he grasps her hands but she won’t let go. Greg knows that he’s bleeding out and wishes his last few minutes on this earth—seconds, perhaps—could be pain-free.

Nick reappears near Sara, and he’s smiling. He tells Greg that he did a good job and caught the suspects, but is unable to hide the tears in his eyes. Their sadness is the last thing Greg wants, but it is the last he sees before his eyes flutter upward and all fades to black.

* * *

Sara sits in the hospital room, her chair pulled close to the vacant bed. Her expression is also empty, but her bloodshot eyes reveal a glimpse of the sorrow inside.

Nick approaches and places a hand on her shoulder, rubbing it soothingly.

“You couldn’t have known.” His voice is rich with emotion. “ _We_ couldn’t have known. You cannot keep beating yourself up over this.”

She sighs and closes her eyes momentarily. Memories of panic and blood and Greg’s scared eyes flood back to her.

_(After somehow losing Brewer in the alley, Sara and the officers returned to Brass and Nick at the cruiser. Nick seemed to have mostly recovered but he was obviously nursing one hell of a headache. Brass began to organize a wider search of the area, but the overall sense of the group was extreme disappointment. They’d been so close to nabbing their guy._

_Sara ran a frustrated hand through her hair. Once the medics arrived and checked Nick out, she and Greg would likely be on their way back to the lab to process the evidence they had gathered from the body, as well as the camera found under the porch. She looked around, realizing she hadn’t seen Greg since she had returned from the alley. He was nowhere in sight. She wandered back into the alley, calling his name in case he had followed in the initial chase, but received no answer._

_Nick didn’t see where he had gone, but another officer reported seeing a CSI dash toward the next intersection. Brass, Sara, and Nick gathered some officers and set off in that direction._

_The early fireworks show downtown started up with a literal bang, and everyone jumped. They turned onto the next street and to their right, the fireworks peaked over the roofs of buildings. To their left, the front walls of the rundown businesses were emblazoned with flashing, multicolored reflections._

_Sara wondered why Greg would have run off. He must have heard or seen something the others didn’t. But why on earth would he go alone?)_

“If anything, I’m to blame,” Nick is saying. “I told him to go get the guy and he did.”

“No.” Sara looks up at her friend, who stands at her side her also facing the bed. “You couldn’t have known, either.”

The two sit in silence for some time, attention wandering back and forth between the neatly made linens and the Vegas sun beaming onto the rooftop outside of the room’s window.

_(When they caught sight of Greg laying half-emerged from another alleyway, on the ground with Brewer of top of him, they all stopped and raised their weapons. Sara squinted to try to make out what the man was holding to Greg’s neck, but it was dark and the flashing lights from the fireworks too distracting._

_For the most part, Sara barely caught any of the words that were shouted between Brewer and Brass, focusing instead on Greg and hoping the fugitive didn’t do anything stupid._

_The motion at his neck was quick and a second later, a nearby officer pulled his trigger. Brewer dropped to the ground and Sara caught the brief reflection of the object that fell from his hand. She was frozen with dread. Greg pulled himself to his feet and Sara was relieved because he must not be too badly hurt…but then he put a hand to his neck and she knew something was wrong. He staggered into the middle of the abandoned street and went down hard. Sara and Nick took off toward him, heedless of Brass’s warning shouts._

_There was so much blood. Sara crouched at his side, trying to get a look under his hands which he pressed to his throat. His eyes were wide and scared and his breaths, ragged gasps. Greg tried to speak but couldn’t, so instead he shakily pointed to the alleyway. Nick followed his hint and went into the alley with an officer to investigate, but Sara stayed put. She couldn’t bring herself to leave Greg alone.)_

“How are we supposed to come back from this?”

Nick’s eyes darted to Sara at her words.

“The same way we always do, I guess,” he shrugs following a short pause.

_(Too much blood. Sara hoped that some of it was Brewer’s but that was looking less and less likely. She managed to pry Greg’s hands away from his throat and shone a flashlight at his wound. The margins of the cut were difficult to make out due to the gushing blood, but she saw more than enough to confirm this was serious. She removed and pressed her scarf to the wound, hoping to staunch the bleeding, and was dismayed when it soaked through almost immediately. Sara pressed harder, knowing she was hurting him but she had to stop it. A person only had so much blood._

_He gripped her hands as if trying to pull them away but she could not let up._

_“I’m sorry. Stay with me, Greg. Please,” she begged. Sara knew that she was letting the fear show in her voice but she could not hold it back. Time was difficult to comprehend, and she had no idea how long passed before Nick returned, but he was suddenly crouched at her side. She tore her eyes away from Greg and looked to Nick for guidance._

_Nick took in how much more blood than before surrounded his wounded coworker and had to fight back the panic and anger. “The medics were already on the way for me, so they’ll be here in a minute. There was another guy in the alley, knocked out. It looks like Brewer had an accomplice.”_

_Sara frowned and looked back at Greg. His eyes were becoming dull; his breaths harsh and spaced further apart._

_Leaning in and grinning tightly, Nick patted Greg on the cheek. “Hey, buddy. You got our guys. Good job.”_

_Greg’s lips twitched into a small smile. As the ambulance sirens faded in, his eyes drifted closed. Nick shouted at him, slapping his face, but Greg did not regain consciousness.)_

“How long have you been waiting here?”

Two sets of eyes redirect their focus to the doorway.

His voice is deep and rough. A thick bandage encircles his neck and conceals the long, horizontal wound there. An orderly pushes the wheelchair the rest of the way into the room and prepares to help move him to the bed.

“Not long,” Nick lies. He and Sara step out of the way and watch the transfer nervously.

_(“Happy new year.”_

_The voice was sweet as candied pineapple. He had no idea why that reference came to him but it seemed appropriate and he made no effort to improve it._

_He finally managed to crack open his eyes. His vision was blurry and his neck felt like it was on fire. Sara appeared above him against a bland, white backdrop which could only be that of a hospital. She was smiling, but her jaw was tensed and her face blotchy._

_The second and final fireworks show of the night started up, and both of the room’s occupants jumped in surprise. His heart monitor responded a moment later, and as he tried to calm himself down, Sara took his hand. Her skin was soft and warm. Nick entered the room, shaking his head at the ruckus. They all wondered if they would ever be able to enjoy fireworks again._

_Nick’s expression lightened the instant he realized his friend was awake._

_“Hey, man!”_

_He opened his mouth; reached to his throat. Any comfort he received from his coworkers’ presence was immediately replaced by panic as he recalled why he was in the hospital. He couldn’t believe he’d survived such a deep cut. What kind of permanent damage could a cut that deep cause?)_

Feeling analyzed and pitied, he chooses to look away from his friends when the orderly supports under his arms and lifts him onto the bed. There’s nothing wrong with his legs, and he should be able to do this on his own but he’s too weak. He’s too weak to even protest the unwanted help.

He shifts back against the pillows and stiffly lowers himself to lay against them with a sigh. He has to be careful to not move his neck too much; he’s at risk of busting a suture, which could be fatal.

_(“Don’t worry, you can’t talk now but you’ll be able to soon.” Nick read his thoughts._

_He swallowed, grimacing at the pain it caused. His throat was dry and sore, and he felt bile threatening to rise in response to the unsteady rolling of his stomach._

_“You have a concussion and you lost a lot of blood, so if you feel nauseous you have every reason to,” Sara added._

_Nick took a seat in a chair next to Sara. “If you’re in a lot of pain, there’s a button in your right palm that will give you a little boost of medication.”_

_He thumbed the button lightly, tiredly eyeing his friends._

_“Don’t worry about us.” Sara reached to run her fingers through his short hair. “Get some rest. We’ll be right here.”_

_Almost instantly after pressing the button down, relief flooded his veins in the form of a bolus of morphine pushed through his IV catheter. He felt like he was floating, and Sara and Nick’s faces morphed and replicated themselves into a crowd of clones. His eyes closed, and he rested comfortably knowing nothing bad could reach him through so many Saras and Nicks.)_

The orderly folds the chair and takes his leave, and Nick and Sara cautiously approach the bed.

“How was your testing?” Sara asks. She tries to sound casual but he can sense the worry still emanating from both her and Nick.

“Fine,” he responds just as casually, but on the inside he is cursing his strange voice. His doctor warned him that it might never be the same due to the damage inflicted. “Increased reticulocytes.”

Sara and Nick glance at each other. They’re thinking this is something to be concerned about.

“It’s good news,” he reassures them. “My bone marrow is making new cells.”

It’s been three days since the incident in an alleyway—the _most recent_ incident in an alleyway—that left Greg fighting for his life. It was touch-and-go for a while; he lost so much blood that the doctors could barely compensate with transfusions, and his healing has been delayed by an infection from the filthy blade used by Brewer, but his body is finally responding as it should.

His friends are relieved.

“Good,” Sara says, grinning. “So you’ll be out of here soon?”

“Yeah, hopefully. Did you guys find out how to access the pictures?”

Nick grimaces. “Unfortunately.”

“And?”

Pausing, Nick wonders whether or not he should tell Greg the truth. He thinks he can handle it, and will find out eventually anyway, so he gives in. “Brewer and his partner were real monsters. The camera contained crime scene photos of each of their victims, except for…” Nick clears his throat. “But the pictures were from before the bodies were found, probably just after they were killed. They liked to try artsy angles with the camera, and even added filters and enhanced the images.”

Greg feels nauseous. “They wanted to take souvenirs. Probably thought it was too risky to carry something from the crimes, so they used photography.”

“It’s just as risky to carry around files incriminating yourselves, and to attack law enforcement,” says Sara. “These guys won’t be remembered for their wit.”

Nodding, Greg studies the threads of the sheets.

Nick leans in. “You’re a survivor, Greg. Don’t forget that. Not only that, you helped put an end to the careers of a couple of serial killers. No one else has to get hurt.”

Greg feels a flush creep to his cheeks because of the compliment, but any pride is short-lived. He knows that the two men that nearly killed him are only two spokes of a giant wheel that rolls incessantly onward. He needs to get better soon so that he can return to work and catch more bad guys.

He smiles gratefully at his friends, who will remain at his side no matter what.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic on New Year’s Eve, with the intention of finishing it quickly and posting it either that night or the 1st. It was supposed to be ~2k words. Here I am more than two weeks later, posting a nearly 6k word one-shot. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> The sequel to Just Getting Started is slowly, but surely, coming along. I needed a quick break from hurting Greg…to hurt Greg in other ways. Thanks for reading! Please review!


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